


No, not the eyeballs

by notveryhandy



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-21
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23777293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notveryhandy/pseuds/notveryhandy
Summary: The Doctor is not the problem. The Master merely has a problem with bad mechanics.The Doctor is a bad mechanic.Well would you look at that.
Relationships: Ninth Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who: Scream of the Shalka)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	No, not the eyeballs

The last straw, he concluded, was probably the human. Alison. Well, how was he meant to know that the Master didn’t like humans, apart from the overwhelming stack of evidence at the Master insisted on presenting whenever the Doctor brought up Earth?

It just wasn’t _fair,_ although the dustbin probably didn’t need to be kicked like that. The rational part of his mind knew that he’d brought this entirely upon himself, and the nasty part of his ind whispered, rather spitefully, that the Master might well be right.

Actually, no. The Master was wrong. Humans were great. And he had a sneaking suspicion that the Master actually _liked_ Alison, although he was in no way prepared to suggest this.

He’d grown quite attached to his skull this time round.

* * *

“My dear Miss Cheney, don’t you have better things to do than wander aimlessly through the kitchen? I am _trying_ to eat my breakfast here.”

“Yeah, I got that.” Alison sat down at the table reluctantly. “And can you not call me Miss Cheney? It’s kind of off-putting.”

Fuck. “Of... course, my dear Alison.” He was in no way bitter about being denied the chance to bring back that catchphrase. It had been one of the few highlights of having humans around. ‘My dear Doctor’ did get boring after a while.

Alison wrinkled her nose. “That’s still annoying, but it’s better, I guess.”

“Consider yourself lucky I have not shot you.”

“Knew I couldn’t trust you-”

“Sadly,” said the Master, “there will be no deaths on the Tardis, as I promised.”

Alison stood up to put the kettle on.

“For now.”

* * *

“OW!”

The Master shrieked, and glared as forcefully as he could at the Doctor. “You should have just left it, you fool!”

“Sorry,” the Doctor muttered. “How was I meant to know-”

“Android Maintenance 101: pressing button alpha-561 will stimulate the pain centres, giving the equivalent feeling of having an anvil drooped on a living foot. _Basic_ science, for this kind of model.”

The Doctor shrugged. “Who ever bothers to read the manual?”

“Me,” the Master said.

“Yes, I noticed. Oh, don’t press button alpha-561, it’ll make him feel like he’s had anvil dropped on his foot! Step away from that screwdriver, Doctor, you’l invert his ribs!”

“I think these are perfectly valid complaints.”

The Doctor continued to murmur sarcastic comments in the background. “Look, just sit still and let me fix this bit, will you?”

“No, not the-”

The Master’s head detached from the neck quite suddenly. The Doctor paused. “Oops.”

From the floor, the Master’s head gave a spiteful glare.

* * *

“Alison, could you pass the salt?”

Good god, this was boring. Normal, non-disrupted dinner? A boringly domestic evening? Curling up (together!) in front of the television and watching EastEnders? What was wrong with the world?

He didn't even _like_ EastEnders! Nobody in the room liked EastEnders, except the only other thing on was David Attenborough, and the Master kept on suggesting dissecting Dave’s face (great chap, could’ve done with fewer Daleks in his house), which was a real mood killer.

It was probably the Tardis’s fault. She kept on suggesting idiotic things like _giving the Master a hug_ and _talking about emotions._

Old age must finally be getting to her, poor thing.

* * *

Maybe the Tardis had some good ideas. The Master was an excellent hugger (and not, for an android, half bad at kissing either), although he’d never admit it. Except for the bit where the Master’s kneecaps went all funny, and he had to buy a new goatee because the other one accidentally got stolen by a cat.

Or maybe Alison, it was hard to tell.

Anyway. When people were done messing around with facial hair (which the Master really could’ve done without), it was the middle of the Tardis-night, and according to the Master, time for sleep.

Did androids even need sleep? Who knew.

The Master, probably, and if the Doctor asked he would probably make a snide remark on it being right at the front of the android manual.

* * *

Ha! Eyeballs were easy to fix. And yes, he was right: there, on the first page of the android manual: androids required the same amount of sleep as a full-grown shiger (shark, tiger, and just a dash of ginger).

How much sleep did shigers need again?

He looked at the Master hopefully. “Shigers need around - ah! Cold!”

Which wasn’t really an answer. The Doctor looked up to see Alison’s latest prank - a water bucket, set to go of when somebody opened the Doctor’s toolbox.

He may or may not have sniggered, and he may or may not have brushed the Master’s hair out of his eyes with a surprisingly endearing and gentle hand motion.

The Master may or may not have pulled slightly closer to him, but that’s a different story altogether.

* * *

“-and he is an _insufferable_ mechanic!”

“Are you finished complaining about your boyfriend yet?” Alison asked.

They were not by any definition of the word boyfriends, at all.

No way. “Actually, we’re married on... oh, I can’t remember. A long list of planets. It keeps on happening.”

Alison grinned. “So I was right, you’re dating. Or married. Whatever.”

The Master went red. “I - what made you think - we never-”

“God, for someone who’s supposedly a great and powerful being, you’re incredibly oblivious.”

The Master stiffened. “So what if I am?”

“So what if you tried actually admitting that and talking to the Doctor?” This was the Tardis’s fault. Had to be. Absolutely.

Meddlesome old thing, this Tardis. “How about _no,_ ” he said firmly. His voice didn’t squeak. Definitely not.

* * *

“Whoops,” the Doctor said, for what had to be the fifth time that day. “Sorry. I’ll un-whatever happened to your eyeballs tomorrow, okay?”

“Yes, but I want my eyebrows back.”   
  
“Oh, sorry about that. Y’see, I loaned them to a nice young man called Matt Smith for a few weeks. He said he felt his eyebrows were somewhat lacking.”

“I hate you.”

“Got the point the first nineteen times, you can stop telling me that now,” the Doctor said. “Now, where were we?”

“Eyebrows. _Now_.”

“Ooh, I do like it when someone has firm opinions on hair,” said the Doctor.

Well that explained a lot. He wasn’t really sure he wanted to be having this conversation right now.

“How about we take this to the bedroom, and you stop fussing about your eyebrows?”

“No and no. We’re already in the bedroom.”

And that was that.

Aside from the Fourth Wall coming crashing down and them visiting a lovely fellow called Paul Something-or-other (it was really very hard to keep track). Oh, and the Bubblewrap Monsters. Long story. Matt Smith returned the eyebrows, and now they’re on loan to some odd fanboy called David - really, sir, it was just some eyebrows, could you please leave?

Whatever. They had each other, they had some cliché story endings, and they had some annoying meta comments about annoying meta comments. Life was great.


End file.
